


a wolf by the ears

by Anemoi



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gladiators, Extremely historically inaccurate, M/M, On the Peri-ometer this fic has "Extreme Totti", Vincenzo Montella Glamorized
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-04-18 04:01:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14204586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/pseuds/Anemoi
Summary: Gladiator AU.





	a wolf by the ears

**Author's Note:**

> I blame this fic on my inability to leave things alone, caitlin, and this [picture](https://78.media.tumblr.com/ba982046635e3bddc4d7099798752363/tumblr_p6myjipZBO1tmhfe3o1_400.png) in that order. If anything sounds suspicious it's cos I made it up.

 

The man with two swords fought like no one he had seen before. He was new to the colosseum, as far as Francesco knew, part of a travelling band of gladiators. He had blooded two men before this already, standing with his blade at their throats and his face tipped up at the stands. The crowd had let him finish one and let the other- face bruised and hanging in shame - go. The dead man was dragged away, heels making the faintest tracks on the dust of the colosseum floor before the helpers ran in, throwing fresh sand on the blood and obliterating all evidence he was ever there.

 

“I want to go on next,” he tells Capello. Capello’s face whitened, possibly at the thought of losing all the investments he’d made on Francesco’s performances, not to mention Francesco himself.  


“No. It’s too dangerous.”  


“He needs to be taught a lesson,” Daniele hisses beside Francesco. “Who does he think he is? That short-”  


“Let me go on,” Francesco says, ignoring him. He looks Capello in the eye, frowning. Daniele was letting fury get the better of him, but he was also right. A stranger couldn’t outshine them here in their own home, _their_ killing ground, in front of _their_ brotherhood. “He’s tired. We won’t be evenly matched- I’ll be merciful after a good show.”  


He wasn’t sure about the last part, of course. The crowd dictated everything. But he thinks, after the _dimachaerus’_ performance today, they will be.

  


-

  


Francesco starts to regret his decision once they crossed swords. The noon sun was high and stifling, the cloth bands around his hands and wrists drenched in sweat. His palm slips on the hilt of his sword, and Francesco hisses through his teeth.  


The stranger was ruthless. He was methodical, and even after the earlier bouts he showed no sign of weariness. His swings were heavy, his footwork light and deliberate, and he pressed Francesco back closer and closer to the walls of the arena.  


In the end, he did fall for Francesco’s feint, growing more arrogant as he slowly chased Francesco around the floor, his swings getting wider. This was the moment Francesco was waiting for, the moment he had to exploit to his advantage. He reels back, wide, shielding his head with his _parma_ and stabbing in low with his sword at the man’s exposed knee. It doesn’t connect, but the man had been caught off guard. He steps back, bringing both his swords up.

  
Francesco smiles.

  


-

  


In the end he was lucky to get away with a bruised eye and a deep but clean cut across the back of his thigh which almost was the end of him, had it not been for a fall at the right moment, the man’s sword nicking the hollow of his throat. Vincenzo took one look at him after and cursed at his inability to wear a helmet in the arena. But the stranger had fared slightly worse, his entire arm bloodied from one of Francesco’s thrusts. Francesco had kicked him, brutally, in the back of the knee, and thinking the fight over he went to stand to the side and looked up at the crowd for instruction.

But the fight hadn’t been over. The man had struggled to his feet, balanced on his swords, and the crowd had chanted their approval. He had raised one sword at Francesco, wearily, but the crowd wasn’t having any of it. _Now_ the fight was over. Francesco was blindsided; had it been a draw?

He thought so. That would make it the first time anyone’s stepped out of the arena with him.

  


-

  


In the tunnel beneath the arena he catches a glimpse of the stranger, helmet off, hair sticking to his forehead and talking quietly to one of his foreign friends. He was having his arm bandaged. His eyes looked calm, and Francesco was drawn despite himself. His face looked too gentle to belong to someone as ruthless as the man in the arena.

Then he touches his throat and it comes away red, and he feels a chill, like one of the death spirits his mama always talked about had put a hand on his shoulder. The man looks up, suddenly, like he’d felt something too, and their eyes meet-  before Vincenzo comes and slaps a hand on Francesco back, talking about safety precautions and where to find celebratory drinks with the rest of the brotherhood.

  


-

  


Francesco couldn’t stop thinking about him- it was ridiculous. He went to sleep at night with the man’s fluid turns in his head and woke up crashing out of blood drenched dreams, shivering. For two days Francesco went about his business - training, meeting with patrons, meeting with wealthy fans- mechanically, head in a daze.

“How come we’ve never heard of him? How come he’s never come to Rome? To the colosseum?” He says to the others at dinner.

Vincenzo stares at him, not deigning to answer. Francesco shakes his head, pours himself wine, and sits back to think some more.

“What are you, in love with him?”

Francesco rolls his eyes and throws an olive in Vincenzo’s direction. “No, you idiot. I just want to know why he’s so good. He almost had me yesterday.”

Vincenzo raises his eyebrows.

“It was a tie,” Francesco says defensively.

“You were both conscious at the end? Walked out on your own legs?”

“Yes?”

“That’s rare,” Vincenzo says, throwing back his wine.

Francesco thought about it. It was true- it was rare. The crowd in the colosseum was notorious for wanting more than something as easily spilled as blood. It was a good fight, to be sure. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t get the man out of his mind.  
“What’s his name,” Francesco asks, trying for casual.

“Sure you’re not in love?”

“Fuck your mother, Vincenzo, you son of-”

“Relax. It’s Alessandro.”

Alessandro. Francesco rolled the name around in his mouth like it was something sweet. At least now he had a name to put to the figure haunting his dreams.

“Wait- how did you know?”

Vincenzo laughs in his face. “Don’t be jealous, Francesco, you poor bastard. He asked to use our training equipment and Capello fell over himself offering him everything, so he’s training with us now. The practice rounds are intense. You would know, if you bothered showing up.”

Francesco says nothing. He wasn’t in the habit of training with the rest of the brotherhood, simply because no one was on his level. He practiced alone, and Vincenzo showed up sometimes for lazy sparring.  


“Daniele is having a party- you should come. There will be girls, you know. And boys,” Vincenzo says, knowingly. Francesco punches his arm absently, then makes his excuses from the rest and leaves.

  


-

  


His leg wound still hurts, but that wasn’t why Francesco didn’t feel in the mood for another party at Daniele’s. His mind buzzed, on edge. The events in the colosseum bothered him, because their fates were always up to the crowd, and to have a stranger come in and disrupt the mood so thoroughly was something he’d never heard of happening. Rome had its own gladiators, and Romans loved them, and their mercy had kept his friends alive, sometimes. He had never had to rely on that mercy before, but he’d come close to it, closer than he’d ever been. And the man in the black helmet- the man who had fought with such grace and intent, had come seemingly from nowhere.

So he’d skipped the party, which he’d never done before. Francesco goes to the training grounds instead, hoping that everyone would be at Daniele’s. He was right; the sparring courtyard was empty. He picks up a sword and hefts it, lighting the torches on the sides so he can see his straw opponent.  


Francesco slowly becomes aware that he was being watched- there’s a man standing in the shadows beyond the reach of torch light. Even without seeing his face Francesco feels a shift in his chest. He walks towards him without hailing him; it had to be Alessandro.

“Alessandro,” Francesco says once he came close enough to make out his face.

“Francesco Totti,” the man says. He didn't smile, solemn faced. Instead he walked with Francesco back to the sparring ground, and picked up a discarded sword. Francesco watched him swing it, rolling his wrists easily.

“No sling?” He asks, looking at his bandaged arm.  


Alessandro turns to him. “It’s not broken. Just a scratch.”

Francesco makes a skeptical sound, but doesn’t push him any further. Instead he turns back to the straw dummy and goes back to practicing his thrusts. Alessandro watches him, silent.

He’s halfway through his basic moves when his leg twinges, the wound on the back of his thigh smarting. Francesco winces; it was stupid to train this early when the wound hadn’t closed up perfectly. He drops the sword in disgust and tries to limp away to the stone benches on the side.

Alessandro slips in beside him, his arm wrapping around Francesco’s middle securely. He pulled Francesco’s arm over him and helped him to the bench where they both sat, arms touching.

“It was actually more than a scratch,” Alessandro offers. Francesco looks at him, and Alessandro’s smiling a little, eyes soft. “It hurts like a bastard.”  


Francesco laughs. He couldn’t help it. Alessandro laughs too, it made him seem younger and more boyish, the firelight glinting off the scars on his face.

“Oh and. It’s Alessà,” he says. Francesco nods, not trusting himself to speak.

  


-

  


“They’re asking for a rematch,” Capello says. “It’s three weeks from now. A match to the death, they’re hoping.”

Francesco frowns. “Who’s asking?”

“Julius, you know, the wealthy patrons. They all saw you at the colosseum and they want it again, except bigger, better-” Capello stops. “You know what they want.”  


“I know,” Francesco says. The tie last time had rankled some, it seems. They’d wanted either one of them to be crumpled into the dust; it didn’t matter which. That is how it ends for a gladiator, the trumpets calling and the blood pooling on the colosseum floor.

“Do I have a choice?” Francesco asks instead. But he knew the answer. He couldn’t refuse it and still expect to go back to the colosseum. There was no choice. Capello knew it too, and he says silent while Francesco leaves.

  


-

  


He doesn’t visit the training grounds again. Vincenzo brought cheerful reports of Alessà’s exploits with the brotherhood every time he came to spar with Francesco; there had been a lot of bruised ribs and broken arms lately.

Francesco was mostly healed but still tender. The impending fight weighed on his mind while Capello talked tactics over him, telling him the techniques Alessà used in training, the usual moves he fell back to when pressed. Francesco felt as though he was standing under a waterfall, as though he could reach out a hand through a film of water and come out somewhere new.

It shook him, this unspeakable unnamed thing- he had killed 53 men in total during his years in the arena. He’d wounded far more. And none has bested him, none even came close. He touched the soft healing skin at his throat, the only reminder of his mortality from the man in the black helmet. He’d decided he couldn’t think of him as Alessà, with his soft voice and calm eyes. That man would come here to Rome and take what is Francesco’s by right, by blood. He would take the crowd’s favor, though he hadn’t earned it, day in and day out at the colosseum, his death like a shadow dancing before his feet.

Francesco couldn’t let him.

  


-

  


There’s a knock at his door the night before the fight. He ignores him, hoping it was Vincenzo who’ll take the hint and leave him alone. He’s prayed to all the gods, to the war god first for glory and winged Mercury for sure footedness and lastly Pluto, god of the dead. Now there was nothing left but the hours before dawn.

Whoever it was didn’t leave. Francesco frowns and considers ignoring them further, but in the end decides to get up. He pulls open the door gruffly, and Alessà’s face greets him, wide eyed.

 

“You?” Francesco says stupidly.

“Me,” Alessà says, eyebrows raised. “I wanted to ask you to share a drink.”

“Before tomorrow,” Francesco says.

“Yes,” Alessà replies, waiting. He hesitates. “Will you let me in?”  


Francesco stares at him. He looked softer in a tunic, unarmored. Alessà sighs and brushes past him into the room.

“Is this your ritual?” Francesco asks. “A bonding ritual? With whoever you fight.”

Alessà laughs, leaning back against the wall. He’s perched on Francesco’s clothes chest, Francesco sprawled on his palet. He had almost nothing in the room. All his winnings went to his parents, save what he needed for equipment. “No.”

“Then why?”

“I wanted to talk to you more,” Alessà says, setting his wine down on the floor. “But you never came back. And tonight is the last night.”

Francesco says nothing, just looked at him. It was dimmer, now, the fire burned low and the moon shining softly through the window. Alessà sat down beside him. He didn’t know why Alessà had wanted to talk; to him there seemed nothing that could be said. Whatever it is must wait for tomorrow, the only words Francesco knows are said by his sword.

“What did you want to say?” he asks instead.

Alessà looks at him, too close. He seemed thoughtful, or perhaps it was just a trick of the light.

He leans in, and pressed his mouth to Francesco’s. Caught off guard, Francesco forgets to breathe; he opens his mouth and Alessà makes a sound. Francesco’s heart beat like Alessà had put a knife to his throat, instead of his lips. Alessà dipped his head down, kissing the hollow of Francesco’s throat, the shiny fold of skin still freshly healed from Alessà’s own sword.

It made Francesco’s head spin- or perhaps it was just the wine. Whatever it was, it let Alessà push him down on the pallet. He looked up at Alessà’s shadowed face, trying to discern his expression. His legs straddled Francesco’s, and somehow, knowing this was the next step but not knowing if it was the right one, Francesco reaches out and touches him. His cock was hard already, and Alessà gasps, soft and muffled against the side of Francesco’s face.

Francesco closes his eyes, because he was wrong. There were some things he could still say outside the arena. He reaches under Alessà tunic so he could touch him better, and Alessà shudders when his hand finds his cock. Francesco buries his head in Alessà’s neck, hand moving in a stuttering rhythm as Alessà moaned. Somehow he’s kissing Francesco again, his stubble rough on Francesco’s face. It felt strange, kissing him, Alessà’s hand pinning his wrist to the pallet even as he came into Francesco’s hand. The man who had tried to kill him come undone for a second, his neck arched and vulnerable. Alessà flops down beside him, breathing hard. Francesco couldn’t look at it, somehow.

“Come on,” Alessà whispers. “Come here.” His hand drops to Francesco’s chest, covering the scars and welts over his heart.

So he goes, let’s Alessà kiss over the hollow by his hips and then lower, fists his hands in Alessà’s dark hair, and let’s himself loose in his warm mouth.

 

-

  


He wakes in the morning and Alessà was gone. In his place he’d left nothing but a space in the circle of Francesco’s arms where he’d slept the night before. Francesco goes through his own ritual for the morning of a fight- he felt calmer, somehow. Like he always did. It was just a fight, and he only had to do what his heart wanted to do. For glory, for the sound of his name ringing around the arena, gold leaves mingling with blood at his feet. For the chance at eternity, and a death done well.

  


-

It was different this time. The crowd was in a vicious mood, their chants rising and heckling when they judged their blows to be lacking in force. Francesco unconsciously adjusts to it without even thinking, pushing Alessà with his shield, driving him back using the advantage of his height.

But he was too hasty in his attack. Alessà stood his ground firmly, cool and methodical, matching him with each swing. He’d flung off his helmet sometime ago, and they circled, the sun beating down on them, the heat rising in waves from the colosseum floor.

He could see Alessà’s eyes, the scrape on his chin where he’d ducked from Francesco’s shield, blood dripping down his neck. Francesco felt heavy, his whole body weighted down by the sodden air. Like a man in a dream he watches Alessà step and thrust in a perfect fluid motion, and far, far too late he moves to bring his arm up and block-

But it didn’t matter. The shock of the blow sends his head snapping backwards. His eyes closed against the sun, fiery red behind his lids, and he sinks to his knees. Alessà had feinted with his sword and hit him with his shield instead. Francesco feels his sword slip out of his hands.  


Alessà - he had to stop thinking of him as _Alessà_ \- brought his blade up. The sun was blinding, glinting off every surface and into his eyes, as he struggled to stop everything from fading in and out. He feels the tip of the sword against the back of his neck- the vulnerable notch that jutted out when he hung his head - pressing in. The crowd screams and roars like the boars in their cages. He couldn’t see anything except the rough sand of the stadium floor, his own bloodied hands.

Francesco shuts his eyes.

The roar rises to a crescendo, but there’s a constant ringing in his ears that stopped things from clarifying. He was only aware of two things at that moment- the slowing thump of his blood in his leg, and the point of Alessa’s sword.

Then there is a bloom of pain in the back of his head which swallowed up his consciousness.

  


-

 

Francesco wakes up in the gloom of his own room, head throbbing. Alessà’s sitting on his pallet, discernible in the dark by a slim square of moonlight slipping in from the window.  

“Come to finish the job?” Francesco says, trying to sit up and groaning. Alessà huffs a laugh, and brings a cup up to his mouth. Francesco swallows the wine gratefully.  
  
“Thank you,” he says.  


“For the wine? Or your life,” Alessà says. He was smiling, the quirk of his mouth lit by the moon. He seemed bleached of all color in the shade, a chiaroscuro in black and white. A warrior come out of legend. Francesco’s death coming to claim him; perhaps not today, but some day. He reaches out and clasps Alessà’s hand, warm under his palm.

  


-

 

In the early morning he wakes up, head buried in the crook of Alessà’s shoulder. The air was cold and his wounds throbbed. The man who made those wounds lay beside him, chest rising and falling gently. Francesco traces a scar on Alessà’s back with the tip of a finger, then replaces it with his mouth.

Alessà turns, all warmth in the morning chill.

  


-

  


“Why didn’t you do it?” Francesco asks in the morning, watching Alessà eat the meagre amount of food Francesco had in his room.

Alessà seemed surprised that he had to ask. “They asked me for mercy. The crowd. So I knocked you unconscious instead.”

Francesco sucks in a breathe. Of course. It flooded his chest with warmth, suddenly, and he had to look away for the certainty that it showed on his face. “Ah.”  


“I’ve never seen a crowd love a gladiator like Rome loves you,” Alessà says around a mouthful of bread, thoughtfully. “Feared? Yes. Worshipped? Yes. Loved? Never.” He looks at Francesco.  


“It’s Rome,” Francesco says simply. “And I am a Roman.”  

  


-

 

He walks Alessà to the city gates after dawn, joking that it was to keep him from being mobbed by the masses for defeating their favorite gladiator. Alessà lets him, helping him hobble down stairs with his crutches. Rome was quiet and lethargic in the hazy morning. The colosseum slept in the center of the city like a dreaming lion, dust and gold.

“Where will you go now?” Francesco asks.

Alessà turns to him, smiling suddenly. It made his face beautiful. “Everywhere. I will see the world.”

“Then don’t die before you’ve seen it,” Francesco says. He clasps Alessà’s arm, but Alessà pulls him in closer. Francesco shuts his eyes and fights a shiver with Alessà’s mouth warm against his ear.

“Don’t fight with your heart, Francesco.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Francesco says. He sees the dusty road winding down behind Alessà, framed by his dark hair at the edge of his vision. Alessà smelled like a morning in Rome, like wood smoke and hay and orange leaves. He thinks it right that he should carry a part of Francesco like this, even if it would wear off along the road. “Alessà.”

He watches Alessà leave, limned in the morning light. Then he turns, and sets off back towards home.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading <333


End file.
